THE PROPHET
There in the gate of Paradise
The Saint is sitting serene and hoary,
Tendrils of euros, and blossoms of eyes,
Festoon him round in his place of glory;
Little cherubs float thick as bees
Round about him, and murmur "father!"
The sun shines bright and he sits at-ease,
Fruit all round for his hand to gather.
Blessed is he and for ever gay,